40 days of war, and a wish for peace

Forty days. That’s how long Moses was up on Sinai. It’s also how long I’ve been living in a Jerusalem bomb shelter with my wife and two kids, who haven’t seen a classroom in more than a month. Forty days of stale air, the rhythmic thud of interceptions, and the hollow exhaustion that comes from realising your government’s only plan is “more”. 

In the Torah, when the 40 days felt too long, the people panicked. They lost their way and built a Golden Calf. They wanted a g-d they could see, something hard and shiny that promised immediate power. 

Today, we are worshipping a different Golden Calf: The belief that war can solve our problems. We’ve convinced ourselves that if we just strike harder, wait longer, or “re-establish deterrence”, we’ll find peace. But war isn’t a solution; it’s an idol. It demands the sacrifice of our sons and daughters, and it offers nothing in return but more rubble and more mourning. 

In times like this, I find myself thinking about the end of Pesach in late Ottoman Palestine. Back then, there was a beautiful tradition. Muslim neighbours would bring their Jewish friends a copper bowl filled with fresh bread, goats’ butter, and honey to celebrate the end of the holiday. Jewish neighbours would return that bowl filled with matzot and homemade jam. 

It wasn’t just an exchange of food; it was a recognition of shared humanity. 

Now, as this “two-week ceasefire” begins, brokered by Pakistan and fuelled by the exhaustion of Iran, the US, and Israel, everyone is scrambling to claim “victory”. Yet they are also holding onto their weapons, promising to resume the fighting if the negotiations don’t go their way. 

While the Israeli generals talk about “strategic gains” against Hezbollah and Iran, I am sitting here in the dark, deeply afraid. 

I am afraid for my kids, who think the sound of a siren is a normal part of childhood. 

I am afraid for my neighbours in Lebanon, in the West Bank, Gaza, and, especially, in Iran. 

I know the headlines want me to see them as “the enemy”, but I can’t stop thinking about the parents on the other side of those borders who have also spent the past 40 days in the dark, clutching their children, praying for the same sunrise I am. 

We are all being sacrificed to the same Golden Calf. We are breaking the tablets of our shared history for a “victory” that doesn’t exist. 

To change this course of history, ordinary citizens across the Middle East need to resist the narratives of dehumanisation that tell us our neighbours’ lives are less worthy than our own. We need to learn the languages of the other, Farsi, Hebrew, Arabic, listen to each other’s music, and understand the beauty of each other’s festivals. Finally, we need to choose political leaders, women and men, who have the courage and skill to make brave compromises for peace. There are many roadmaps that can guide us on this journey, both for Israel and Palestine, and the Middle East as a whole. 

From here in Jerusalem, I look forward to celebrating a true victory on the day the Iranian people stand tall, unburdened by a regime of domination, where women can again sing songs of life and freedom. 

I long for a Middle East where our most potent weapons are the words and ideas that insist my neighbour’s dignity is the only true mirror of my own. 

I long for an Israel where our resilience and innovation are celebrated for the heroism of those who forge long-lasting peace agreements. 

May we work for a day in Jerusalem when the fresh bread, goats’ butter, and homemade jam are once again passed across the threshold, not as a memory of what was, but as a promise of what we have finally chosen to become. 

• Ittay Flescher is the author of The Holy and the Broken: A Cry for Israeli-Palestinian Peace from a Land that Must be Shared, available at Bookdealers in South Africa or through Amazon.